


Kites Are Delicate Paper Flowers, Not Rabid Jewpacabras. Aren't They?

by Zweelee



Category: South Park
Genre: Ace Spectrum, Creek is implied, Freedom Pals - Freeform, Gen, Kenny is not the only person to get them, Kyle has anger issues, Lovecraftian eldritch abminations, New Kid is mentioned, SP:TFBW follow-up, South Park: The Fractured But Whole, Transhumanism, character sheets are relevant, real superpowers, the 2nd part of S21 is not taken into account
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zweelee/pseuds/Zweelee
Summary: After the dire Mitch Conner-related string of events, the laboratory of Doctor Mephesto lies in ruins. Not for long. Stan learns that Dr. Mephesto has started new research, one that still involves animals and, quite possibly, lots and lots of their suffering. Having assumed his superhero persona, Toolshed leads his friends to the rescue. Unfortunately, their infiltration-slash-rescue mission goes horribly wrong. And especially wrong it goes for Kyle.





	1. Alien Kites Are Humans Too, Unfortunately

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: tons of sexist, racist, homophobic and all-around unpleasant stuff that is said by (mostly) Cartman, because that's what Cartman does. Some puke-related ew-ness later on. Intense angst on Kyle's part, especially of existential kind, because that's what Kyle does. Also, experiments on animals, though nothing really graphic.
> 
> This fic takes place a couple of weeks after the events of SP:TFBW. The 21st Season is mostly not taken into account.

“We should do something,” Stan declared, planting his elbows on the tabletop and leaning forward with such resolution that, Kyle mused, even his half-eaten lunch had to be impressed. The same half-eaten lunch that was currently lying forgotten in front of his friend. A chicken sandwich, apparently, had already started to develop abandonment issues and was proceeding with it, slowly but steadily.

Kenny mmffed in response, the intonation of his voice quizzical. Kyle roughly translated it from the Kenny-speak as “Do something about what, dude?” and subscribed to the question.

“Yeah, something about what exactly? You need to be more specific, you know.” He shut his copy of _A Short History of Nearly Everything_ , bookmarking the page he was on with his finger. It wasn’t very good reading material anyway: too much razzle-dazzle around the lives of those brilliant and famous, too little actual scientific substance.

Assured he captured everyone’s attention (at least, the attention of those four of them that had gathered around their usual cafeteria table), Stan continued:

“About the animals in Doctor Mephesto’s Lab. What he does to them is awful, and when everything went to shit – I mean, when the Buttkid and we were there – we just _had_ to make it worse. When something bad happens, animals are first to suffer, but at least it isn’t usually intentional, you know? No one is really responsible for that. But his experiments are very much intentional. He just collects them, locks them up in cages and hurts them, and then probably kills them when something doesn’t go right, which is every time. For no reason. That’s sick.”

Stan looked genuinely concerned and not a little disturbed. Actually, he had been looking mild versions of such at all times since the fateful adventure that brought them to the mad geneticist’s lab, but Kyle didn’t know how bad it was. They all were quite shaken by the whole altering-time-space-and-thwarting-Cartman’s-twisted-schemes experience; however, in Stan’s case, it was only now when it really resurfaced.

The thought of what happened in the laboratory was extremely uncomfortable, indeed. Although, as Kyle suspected, his reason to feel uneasy was a slightly different one from that of Stan. His cousin was barely bearable even in his usual human form, but mutant… The nauseating knot in Kyle’s stomach made itself known, contracting, wringing and turning, oozing acid. It was part revulsion and part guilt, and Kyle didn’t even know which prevailed. He hadn’t heard anything from the Schwartzes since his cousin’s mother took him home, still bloated and mountain-like, and Kyle was shamefully grateful that the other one was in no condition to tell on him. The adults decided that the reason for changes in his physique was a bad case of helminth infestation, and the most scolding Kyle got was for how he was supposed to watch over his cousin’s dietary escapades, which usually had nothing escapade-like about them, really, and also had nothing to do with Kyle. But he didn’t say so and he took the blame, because it was better that way. It was better than to answer for the genetic mutation, and for the battle, and for nearly killing him.

Everything about that situation was disgusting and horrible. And the ultimate fate of the many-assed experimental subjects kind of added to it, if only a bit.

“That’s weak, Stan,” oh, great, Fatass decided to make his extremely valuable and welcome input in the conversation. “Who told you it was for no reason? I thought it was pretty neat.”

 _Of course you did_ , Kyle thought, feeling his fingers grip the book tighter, until they hurt under his nails. _Of fucking course_.

Kenny spared him a cursory glance, something akin amusement (but, in truth, defying easy classification) in his eyes, and then turned his behooded head to Stan. To Stan, who exhaled wearily and explained:

“You know, Craig was absolutely right. There is no scientific value in his experiments,” his voice was level and controlled, but Kyle could hear underlying distaste and indignance in it – he knew what to look for. “He is doing it for fun, that’s all. He just likes to see what happens to them after he alters their bodies, and then he refuses to admit it, pulling the excuses and justifications out of his ass. Which makes what he does even worse.”

“Why is it worse?” this time, Kenny was almost intelligible, a wisp of the Mysterion persona in his words. Kyle wondered sometimes, if Kenny and Mysterion were one and the same, so different they were, so unlike each other in matters they cared about. Or did the difference lie in _showing_ concern openly and being vocal about it? Kenny, whom Kyle once knew, wouldn’t give two shits about some animals in some laboratory. Or would he? Thinking about it felt weird.

“I don’t know, dude. It just feels that way”.

It took a moment to realize that Stan was answering Kenny’s question, not Kyle’s inner thoughts.

“Maybe, it feels worse for the reason that, if Mephesto were sincere about it, everyone would see him for a whackjob he is and his experiments would be banned? Nobody would tolerate someone, who openly tortures others for his, or her, or their own amusement. If everyone knew and recognized the truth, he could be stopped,” Kyle gave Cartman a pointed look, real meaning of which, most certainly, went ignored. So he added, nigh tasting the bitterness of what he was about to say. “Oh, sorry. My mistake. What am I even talking about. This is South Park, nobody _ever_ recognizes things for what they are and does something about it here.”

“Dude…” Stan started, but was interrupted by Cartman’s reaching out across the table to snatch one of Kyle’s homemade cookies. It quickly disappeared in his rapacious maw, and he responded to Kyle’s scandalized _Hey!_ with sickening and very falsely wisdom-like “Are you on your periods, Kyle? You should learn to chill. You Jews have pissy hearts, you’ll get your vein burst or something.”

Of course. Of fucking course, Cartman just _had_ to say something like this. Of fucking, fucking course.

Kyle bit into one of remaining three cookies – the apparition of hypoglycaemic attack looming in his mind – with unnecessary force and pushed other two to Kenny, knowing pretty well that soon Cartman would have nothing to steal, if he decided to do that again. As Kenny munched happily at the proffered snack, Kyle said, his voice vibrating in his throat:

“Males. Don’t have. Periods. Dumbass. And to suggest that the cause for deviations in behaviour is not an actual, _completely justified_ , reason, but some dumb hormonal spike of a person, who is _not able_ to control her _biological nature_ , because she _lacks higher mental functions_ …”

He interrupted himself when he saw three pairs of eyes fixed on him, each set with its own emotional charge. Kenny even stopped chewing. Cartman too, which suggested that there was every reason to feel alarmed.

And there really was, because Kyle found himself half-standing, his right hand dangerously bending the thick cover of hardbound _A Short History_ , his stance drawing attention of the other kids in the cafeteria – curious glances, occasional scoff. He sat down.

“You sounded like PC Principal,” Kenny delivered verdict, discernable more than enough.

“No, I didn’t,” Kyle replied, knowing already that it wasn’t entirely true. He kind of _could_ subscribe under the vast majority of the moral values PC Principal professed, although the disproportionate retributions the man ladled out so readily were hardly a good thing. Kyle’s were disproportionate only in the sense that he didn’t react adequately, often letting issues slide without proper consequence. It would be such an arduous nightmare to fight _every_ battle, and for the most part even fruitless.

But staying silent was even more wearisome sometimes.

“You know, Kyle, it would suit you to be a chick.”

Kyle blinked at Cartman’s apparent non-sequitur.

“What? Why?” he asked, though didn’t really want to, mentally preparing himself for the answer – for some scathing remark, offensive and wrong on so many levels.

It didn’t disappoint.

“You’d get more reasons to feel indigenous about, that’s why, Kyle. Chicks these days are offended by everything, all the time. They get a kick out of feeling indigenous, and they are pro at inventing the reasons. This is a special chick skill, everybody knows it. And you totally act like a chick.”

 _This_.

The effect of this ignorant, disparaging, invalidating statement was close to that of electric shock, short-circuiting the neurons of his brain. Several independent thought-processes fired up, all blaring with red hot emergency lights – what the fuck, _inventing_ the reasons, when they fucking exist for a fuckt– _fact_ – and, and, to suggest that someone would genuinely _like_ it– this, this _hurt_ , and _helplessness_ , and need _to fight_ lost battles, because you are _a target_ , _again_ , and nobody sees _anything_ wrong with– and _indigenous_ , he clearly meant _indignant_ – how the fuck you even mix _these_ two up–

His silence, hailing from his inability to produce one separate coherent string of words at the time when there were far too many, muddled and crowded together in him, choking him from the inside, was, apparently, taken for _You are welcome to say more of your great and really wise stuff, Cartman, we are listening to you very attentively_. Because he actually added to his previous speech, already hideous enough:

“And if you were a chick, Kyle, you could hook up with Stan, so poor thing wouldn’t need to find cheap substitutes. I mean, Wendy is basically you, but a chick, and not a Jew, and also not a ginger, and not from Jersey, so… Well, actually, no, Stan’d probably hook up with her instead anyway, who’d want his children to be even one J, let alone all three. Then Kenny. You’d have boobs, so you’d basically be his type, and he’d totally want to marry you, with your Jew gold and everything, ‘cause he’s so poor he’d really need this gold to make up for his negative value. _Hey_! That was totally uncalled for, Kenny! You can’t shut up truth with violence, that’s against the American way!”

The latter part of his spiel was induced by what looked like Kenny kicking him in his shin under the table. Kyle exhaled, feeling like he was able to breathe again, tension in his head dissipating. It was really nice and all kinds of gratifying to see someone else standing up against Cartman for once.

And then Kenny emitted a short muffled exclamation and, before Kyle even started to worry that Carman might have retaliated and kicked him back, bent over and dove into his backpack. What he retrieved from it reminded Kyle of a push-up sports bra at first glance, but when Kenny laid it out on the table for everyone to see and marvel at, he realized that his initial impression wasn’t exactly right.

It definitely _looked_ like a body-coloured push-up sports bra, but it wasn’t a _women's_ body-coloured push-up sports bra. It was too heavy padded, as if it was meant for someone with size zero at best, or no breasts whatsoever. It also was clearly home-made, crudely sewn of beige plush, the fabric that, from all appearances, had been repurposed from a piece of old clothes – a morning gown or some other garment of a similar nature.

“What do you have it for?” Kyle asked, perplexed. He wasn’t very eager to touch it, but ran his fingers across its textile surface nonetheless, studying its fleecy texture. The bra was soft and spongy, and surprisingly anatomically correct: the padding did not form two perfect hemispheres, as one could expect; the prominences were more oval and complexly curved, replicating the natural shape of human mammary glands, only without nipples.

Kenny shrugged and said something not readily recognizable. Cartman answered for him:

“That’s what I was talking about! Now Kenny can pretend you’re a chick and make sweet love to you and your Jew gold, Kyle. That’s so fucking gay.”

Kenny knitted his brows and, with an indignant _Hmpf!_ , hid the artificial breast-bra back into his backpack, putting it out of sight. It was stupid to suggest that the thing was meant for Kyle; it had, probably, more to do with Kenny’s “Princess” persona or one of his weird sexual fetishes. The topic, which Kyle wasn’t very enthusiastic to delve into.

“I don’t understand, why all of you attach so much significance to sexual characteristics of a person. How does it even matter what type of reproductive junk someone has? It’s just a clump of cells anyway. It is not indicative of any personality trait, and it tells nothing about a person as a sentient being. In a perfect world, I would rather not be associated with some dumb socially constructed stereotype concerning sex and gender, and I would rather not deal with stupid hormones and other biological uncontrollable shit that comes with the package. However, this world is _clearly_ not perfect, so I have to live with what I’ve got; and it’s not like having been born as a girl would really change anything significant for me personality-wise, so I don’t know how it is even a topic of this conversation.”

Speaking his mind on such a sensitive subject wasn’t the most prudential thing to do. It gave too much of an opening, especially because Cartman was there, ready to pounce upon any soft spot he sniffed out. It would be high time to learn to stay silent, but it had never been Kyle’s forte and, most likely, would never be. Damn.

“So, you’re saying, you’d not want to be a chick. Why a change of mind, Kyle? I heard you telling different thing.”

Cartman seemed genuinely involved in the conversation, his beady eyes wide open and glinting, his posture bearing testament to his sharp attention. At this point, it would be better not to encourage him and not to ask follow-up questions, but hey, what the hell? Kyle really, really disliked the situations when somebody put words into somebody else’s mouth, and he liked even less to be on the receiving end of it.

“What the fuck, Cartman, when was it that I said I would like to be a girl?” he asked, already bristling in anticipation of an answer.

“When you were talking about your superhero alter-ego, Human Kite. You said you aspire to be trans-something, didn’t you? Isn’t that when you feel as a girl, and want to wear dresses and heels and make-up and other girly stuff, and also want to have tits and vagina?”

Kenny giggled, and Kyle threw a withering glance at him, then focused back on Cartman and his outrageous ignorance.

“Congratulations, in one sentence you’ve managed to mix up transvestism and being transsexual or transgender, which are three entirely different things that, _quite shockingly_ , have nothing to do with _transhumanism_ I was speaking about.”

Cartman puffed his cheeks and rolled his eyes in a distinctly mocking way – the one, after which usually came his especially nasty voice, repeating the words said by his opponent with an exaggerated accent.

To Kyle’s surprize, when Cartman opened his mouth, the tone of his voice was the same, no more unpleasant than as per usual (which was still unpleasant in great measure, of course).

“You can’t expect normal people to remember all this stuff, Kyle. Only nerds, fags and crazy feminists have brainspace for it, ‘cause their brain works differently. It’s like a scientific fact already, I wonder why you didn’t hear about it, being a giant know-it-all and everything. It was on TV, there was that TV show about neuro-avengent people. And why your trans-inclinations are such a touchy subject anyway? Are you neuro-avengent too, Kyle?”

As if _you_ would know what a _scientific fact_ really _is_ , dumbass.

“No, I’m not _neurodivergent_ , although I’m starting to think that _you_ are, being a _psychopath_ , which would be, most likely, even _seen_ on your fMRI scans. And it is a _touchy_ subject, because I want to be seen as a person, a _complex sentient being_ , who is not defined by their stupid _basic instincts_ or their _reproductive function_. I’m not some _stupid, primitive animal_ that–”

“ _ **Guys!**_ ”

It was only one word, and delivered in only a slightly raised voice, but it encapsulated such a potence that it managed to stop Kyle’s harangue immediately. Three heads turned to Stan, the owner of at least one of them (possibly, two; all three of them – extremely unlikely) feeling some degree of shame.

Stan rarely yelled, much rarer than Kyle did, and he did not _yell_ per se even now; he just said his “guys” where should be “Kyle” with the intensity of a person, who had about enough of everything and was desperate to end it one way or another.

Stan’s chicken sandwich still lay between his elbows, bitten into only once or twice. If it hadn’t been for medical reasons, Stan would have been a vegetarian, Kyle knew it for a fact. Those animals in the lab had to be really important to him; that, and, well, animal suffering sucked, even if it sucked less than human suffering, what with their incapability to process the concept of suffering and to recognize themselves as suffering conscious beings.

“Guys,” Stan continued, drawing his hand to his face – no doubt, to pinch the bridge of the nose in his usual display of exasperation – but then retrieving it, his nose left unpinched. “I know that sitting here and bickering with each other is much more entertaining, than saving some _stupid_ and _primitive_ animals from inevitable death. But, _please_ , could you just focus for a minute?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you or them, dude.” It was only a half of the truth. Kyle did not regret his choice of words, for they reflected the reality of things. However, to engage in petty altercations with _Cartman_ of all people and to derail the discussion that his best friend was trying to have… That wasn’t nice of him, he was ready to admit it. Denying his friend much-needed support was not something a good person would do. Especially when the said best friend is willing to fight for a good cause. “We are listening. Still, are you even sure that there _are_ animals that need to be saved? The lab was in ruins two weeks ago. And Doctor Mephesto said that Buttlord’s fart skills made him realize that no one needs that many asses anyway. Maybe, he decided to change his occupation, to become a chef or a driver, I don’t know.”

“Yeah, we busted his lab for good,” Kenny agreed, not quite Mysterion-like, but a bit getting there.

Stan sighed. It sounded half-demonstrative, half-despondent.

“Of course I am sure. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t even asked you, assholes, to help me.”

The idea of rounding him up with others under the general umbrella of the term “asshole” – Kyle didn’t like it in the slightest, especially since it meant being lumped with the likes of Cartman. Still, even if it hurt quite a nasty bit, it was at least partially deserved, so. He would live.

“And we are ready to help you,” he assured his friend in the most heartfelt voice he knew. “We just want details. Right, Kenny?”

Kenny put the second cookie in his mouth, rendering himself even less intelligible than usual, and agreed with an eager _Uh-huh_.

Stan sighed again, this time with only a fraction of the demonstrativeness and despondency of his previous sigh.

“I wanted to know what he was up to, so I decided to check on him.” He said and, at long last, picked up his sandwich from its doleful resting place on the tray. “And there were trucks at his gates. More than a dozen of them. One was being unloaded for some reason, the one closest to the gates. I guess, it was an inspection thing. Two people were looking at the boxes’ content. I’ve seen it too, though it was just a quick glimpse. Still. Loads and loads of equipment. So, then I came back home and looked up his website.”

With obvious reluctancy, he took a bite.

“Mephesto has a website?”

Kyle didn’t know why it surprised him, but it did. It really shouldn’t have, though, considering that even gerbils had their own websites in the modern day and age. Maybe, he should make one for “Freedom Pals” too, with photos and everyone’s profiles, and goals they plan to achieve, and means to gather feedback from populace, so they could learn from their mistakes. That would be nice.

“Mm-hm,” Stan swallowed his long-suffering bread and chicken and answered properly, putting a halt to Kyle’s ambitious dreams. “It turns out, he does. And it has been updated recently, too. There is nothing definite yet, but still, there is this post right on the front page. He tells his potential audience, that the labour of his life suffered great losses and proved itself to be inviable, but that’s okay. I mean, he says that, not me, although I would be pretty okay with it remaining inviable forever and rotting in hell. No such luck, it seems. Because then he tells that his failure turned, in fact, into the foundation of his greatest scientific insight, or at least cleared the way for it. And currently he is laying the groundwork for an extremely promising scientific project, which is bound to change the face of science or even the face of the world forever, bringing to an end the version of it that is known to us.”

“Well, that’s alarming.” With these mad scientist types, you never know if they mean “the end of the world as we know it” figuratively or literally, and whether it would be a good thing for the inhabitants of the said world. They have no sense of responsibility whatsoever, being interested only in quenching their own thirst for knowledge.

It was something Kyle could understand and sympathize with.

Still, the responsibility thing.

“It is!” Stan nodded. “It _could_ be nothing – he is not exactly a successful entrepreneur, so I doubt he is able to go with his research and inventions out there, in the world, and make real difference. Not unless he finds an interested party, which I doubt. But he still uses animals. On his website, there was a request. He asks people to sell their pets to him. So even if it’s nothing, even if his ideas are crazy and wouldn’t work in a million years, he still hurts animals and kills them. We should do something, guys.”

He looked directly at Kyle, his face determined, his eyes pleading. As if he needed that help not from “Freedom Pals”, but from Kyle specifically. And as if Kyle was about to not live up to his expectations.

It was a wrong impression, of course. It was just that Kyle sat directly in the line of his sight, at the other side of the table, right across him. Not like Kenny, who sat next to Stan, or Cartman, who sat next to Kenny. It would be awkward to try looking in their eyes with such soul-searching, guilt-inducing gaze.

It was just that. However, still unsettling.

“I’ve already said that I’ll help!” He said that with the force he immediately felt was unnecessary. Then added, a bit more quietly and a bit less defensively: “We’ll help you. Even if he weren’t wasting animals, it still would be a right thing to check on him. Who knows what he is up to. Do you have a plan?”

The next several moments, it was almost silent at the table. Even Cartman’s chewing wasn’t as loud as usual. He could be attentive, when it served his purposes, Kyle had to give it to him; although it was increasingly unclear what Cartman’s purposes in that whole situation could even be.

“Yes.” At last, Stan answered. “I believe I do have one.”


	2. You Cannot Experience Phantom Limb Pain, If You Were Not Supposed To Have The Said Limb In The First Place, Dumbass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To remain a part of Stan's mission, Human Kite has to sacrifice something very important to him. Fortunately, Kyle is very good at making sacrifices!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, and, for a while, I even thought that the second chapter wasn't going to exist. After writing the first one and a couple of pages of the second, I hit a rough patch in my life (I hope there's no cause-and-effect relation somewhere in there; otherwise I'm screwed now! big time!), and when I had finally wended my way through it, the past seemed to me extremely past-like and obsolete.  
> However, here I am! Writing the story that won't look like I initially imagined it! (isn't the character development of me the awesomest thing? so yay, I guess?)  
> Enjoy it, if you find it an enjoyment-generating material, and don't enjoy it otherwise!

Stan _did_ have a plan, and it was actually a pretty solid one. Sneak into one of the trucks. Hope that it wouldn’t be searched thoroughly enough. Wait for the staff to leave. See what Dr. Mephesto’s research entailed. Save the animals.

 Easy, huh?

 It sounded easy.

 Still, the first time Kyle understood that the plan was an utter disaster waiting to unfold and wreck everyone’s lives was at the same table where it had been proposed – in fact, less than a minute after.

 It happened when he said that it was a stealth mission, and the less people were involved in the infiltration the better. Actually, three of them would suffice, he said. Then… it was then when Cartman asked, why three. Why Mysterion wouldn’t go, or if it was Human Kite who wouldn’t.

 As if he thought _his_ place was granted.

 As if he _wanted_ to go. As if he actually _gave a fuck_.

 Kyle asked him then, what he was planning. What profit he expected to gain. What was his scheme.

 And Cartman played his “falsely accused” card, that bastard. Said that experiments on animals concern the Coon more than anyone, since he is a half-animal himself. That he understands their plight. That they are his brother and sisters, these animals, warped by some sick genetalist (did he mean “geneticist”, that ignorant dipshit?) into something they aren’t, something that is less than an animal and more than mere one at the same time.

 His speech was positively loathsome.

 Kyle didn’t believe him even for a minute. Not after those innumerable times when he _did_ believe, when he _wanted_ to believe there still was something good in Eric Cartman – and then it turned out that no, he was the same psychopathic asshole as ever.

 So he was ready to continue arguing. He was ready, even though it was getting more and more exhausting with every bit of imposturous bullshit Cartman was spewing at them so shamelessly; even though he wanted nothing more than to read a book in peace and for the world to be a slightly less clueless, cruel place; even though he was sick, so sick with Cartman and his whole existence, and wished to have nothing in common with him for so long – neither common character traits (Stan said they had plenty, and Kyle saw it too, saw for the truth it was, albeit only in places), nor time spent in common, together… nor a common planet, for that matter. But he had to do it, he had to; it was for the sake of their case.

 It was for the sake of Stan’s case, specifically, so it was double-wounding to get “Kyle, goddamnit, stop it already, if Cartman is interested in helping animals and genuinely intends to be a little less of an asshole than he usually is, then fucking _let_ him” instead of support. As if Stan didn’t _understand_ . As if Stan didn’t _see_.

 Or _did_ he, in fact, see, just didn’t care strong enough?

 But… it was _his_ mission, even if it was Kyle’s mission now too.

 Wasn’t he interested in its success, something that is nigh unobtainable with Cartman in their team?

 Having received traitorous jab from his supposedly best friend, Kyle turned to Kenny, in hope that his second best friend was in his right mind and fully able to see Cartman for what he was, a disgusting deceitful depraved dump of human shit.

 To his joy, Kenny _did_ look kinda sour and displeased with Cartman insistence to involve himself in their business. Still, when Kyle sent him a pleading glance, trying to ray forth his silent cry for help and for at least _some_ partnership in the matters of fighting true evil, he just winced and shrugged.

 “Let him,” he said.

 And, before Kyle felt betrayed again, added:

 “At least, we’ll be able to keep an eye on him. Leaving him here won’t help. He’ll just tail us and ruin our plans even more spectacularly. And that’s even if he doesn’t have evil plans already. He’ll just break into the lab through a window and trigger every fucking alarm, and we’ll be busted.”

 And, though Cartman started protesting and trying (and failing) to convince everyone that he’s too clever to do such a stupid thing, Kyle actually bit down on the words forming inside of him, the words seething yet dithering, rawing his throat, his chest, his brain.

 What Kenny had said, it made sense. It was a valid argument. Kyle could see his point.

 So he stayed silent and stayed put, letting Cartman rave and rampage.

 To keep an eye on him?

 Oh, he was going to. Oh, how he was.

 

***

 The second time Kyle understood that everything was going down the gutter was when his kite refused to fit in the container, into which he was about to squeeze himself. And no. It didn’t fit other boxes either, even the ones that could hold the hulking mass of Cartman’s body.

 ...In the end, they had to employ the other “Freedom Pals”, at least those who were available at the moment. Doctor Timothy and Fastpass were in the camp, and the New Kid… Well, the New Kid was with Professor Chaos now, apparently, and Kyle couldn’t even blame him. Having seen what Cartman is capable of, wouldn’t one be eager to switch sides? To find justice in other places?

 The New Kid didn’t have the burden of responsibility yet. And even if he had, it wasn’t the responsibility _for Cartman_.

 So.

 Well.

 The trucks heading to Mephesto’s labs usually made a stop at Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse, and Wonder Tweek volunteered to add something into a driver’s order. Something that would render him incapable of leaving a bathroom for the span of time long enough to find their way into and hide. He was holding well, considering that there were about dozen things which could go wrong, and, in Tweek’s mind, their number skyrocketed up to dozen million, undoubtedly. Super Craig was hanging around, ready to initiate the plan B in case Tweek’s one failed and providing moral support in general. What the plan B entailed nobody knew, but Super Craig looked pretty confident and self-assured.

 Admittedly, he looked confident and self-assured most of the time, so it wasn’t very telling.

 Still, the issue that emerged in the process of hiding had nothing to do either with Tweek’s wired-up nature, or with Craig’s impassiveness, or even with Cartman’s evil schemes.

 The issue that emerged was Kyle’s very own problem.

 Once, he conceived the idea of being someone capable of flight but not of a usual kind – “angel” wings, ugh, what is he, a moody, melodramatic teenager? insect wings, the wings of a bee or a dragonfly, well, that’s closer, but still; but still… and then they had Mosquito, so that path was closed – and he entertained it, and came up with a kite, which was sufficiently distinctive and quite achievable; at least, he had thought that before it took him two weeks to assemble fabric, cord and strips of wood into something worthy to symbolize his superhero persona.

 He was quite proud of it, once; even though he knew that Stan… that Toolshed would have been infinitely better at it, and he actually had offered to help. He didn’t understand, though, that, for Kyle, it was a matter of principle, a ritual (not a _religious_ ritual but _sacred_ nonetheless) of creating his own identity, a previously non-existent part of himself that should have been there from the beginning.

 Being an alien came next.

 It was important.

 Even though it clashed embarrassingly with the “human” part of the concept, Kyle couldn’t get rid of the thought about the space. The Cosmos. The grand scheme of things, in which teeny-tiny people, inhabiting the planet Earth, were but a mere specks of dust; valuable specks of dust, capable of information-processing and cognition, and self-awareness, and experiencing the Universe in a deliberate way, but teeny-tiny ones nonetheless. They hated each other and tortured each other and killed each other and did a billion of other awful things to each other, but they did it less and less vehemently with every passing century. With every passing year. And, somewhere during this (inevitable, as Kyle hoped) process, it ceased to be considered okay to kill a person, to rape a person, to torture a person, to treat a person like a commodity, to hurt a person with words. It still happened, yes, _but generally it was not considered par for the course anymore_.

 So, everything was getting better. And it was getting better at a much higher rate than it used to.

 Still, Kyle felt it wasn’t enough.

 The amount of cruelty and prejudice, of socially acceptable harm to one’s personhood, of ignorance and apathy, of total incapability of being responsible for one’s words and actions (because a word is an action too, you see?), and of suffering that resulted from these– it, it still was high, it still was _there_ , and he didn’t, he didn’t know, what– he didn’t know, how– he, he _didn’t_ –

 Thinking of the Cosmos helped.

 It _helped_ him.

 It helped him because it reminded him how recently on the cosmic scale anything, _everything_ had happened. How little time had truly passed since more than a half of the Earth population was considered less complex and intelligent, lacking depth of thoughts and feelings, primitive, expendable, _subhuman_. Worthless when not useful.

 Common sense told him to choose between being _Human_ Kite and an alien. You cannot be both, can you? You are either one or the other, you are either an earthling or an extraterrestrial, and there’s that.

 He had to sacrifice something. Being this or being that.

 And he did make a choice.

 He chose to sacrifice common sense.

 And was greatly ashamed of it. He valued common sense quite a lot.

 However, to him, it felt as a lesser evil.

 So, in the end, there he was.

 An alien Human Kite, partially stuffed into a box (where, not long ago, 16 lb. bags of cat food had been) and almost completely stuck.

 His kite didn’t fit. No matter how inventive he was in his attempts, even having given up on ergonomics and prioritizing efficiency above his own wellness. One part of the kite or another was always above the edge of the box, making it impossible to close the lid.

 He ended up standing quite clearly _outside_ the box and racking his brain in search for an acceptable solution, and metaphorical clocks (there couldn’t be any other kind; nobody used mechanical ones anymore – at least not for time-identifying purposes) continued to tick-tock, tallying the time one could possible dedicate to interacting with a toilet, even in the worst cases of an upset stomach.

 He knew he had to come up with an actionable idea, otherwise he would be asked to stay here, with other “Freedom Pals”, and wait for his friends and Cartman to return _aut cum scuto aut in scuto_ , and he didn’t doubt even for a second that it was going to be the last one. If he stayed, Cartman would be left unattended, free to wreak any kind of havoc he pleased. That was… that was just unacceptable, and…

 Yes, and “helping Stan, his friend, to save helpless animals from the claws of a shallow-hearted and morally bankrupt scientist” thing. That, too.

 Speaking of whom. Right now, Stan – or, better to say, Toolshed – was busy with helping Cartman (ugh, okay, _the_ _Coon_ ) into the box of the Coon’s choice. The amount of grunting, groaning, complaining and general alarums and excursions involved was astounding – however, maybe, not really, given that it was fucking Cartman that Human Kite was thinking about; entirely unnecessary and still unavoidable – unpleasant noises and inconvenience he produced, that is. Not a “thinking about Cartman” part.

 Ugh, he should have done something.

 It wouldn’t do, to be the one who didn’t fit. To be the one who had been left behind.

 Ugh.

 He shoved himself into the box again, feeling the belts that fastened the kite to his back uncomfortably tighten against his shoulders. One end of the horizontal wooden strip bumped into the inner wall of the box somewhere Human Kite didn’t see, and the other end stuck out in some way Human Kite didn’t see either, and not even because it was rather dark in the truck. He tried to adjust his position, and something crackled, forebodingly.

 It was alarming.

 Unless…

 Actually, it seemed that _it_ was his only choice.

 He unscrambled himself, not even believing yet that he was actually going to say what he was about to say.

 “Hey,” the words seemed to clot in his mouth. “Mysterion. Come help me.”

 He said that sotto voce, not wanting to draw uncalled attention; but, of course, it was a futile endeavor to remain inconspicuous about any matter in the cramped, narrow space they planted themselves into by virtue of abiding by Stan’s plan. Everyone looked at him, including Cartman and Toolshed (shouldn’t both of them be busy with accommodating Cartman inside his own box? Ugh).

 Mysterion, who had already folded himself neatly on the bed of his respective container and waited for the others to follow suit, straightened a bit (at least, his upper half) and peered at Human Kite, appraising his situation.

 “What do you need me to do?” he asked, at last. “Your kite seems much bigger than the box, dude. It doesn’t look like it would fit either way.”

 “It will fit, if you help me break it. The horizontal spar.”

 Having said that, Human Kite braced himself for the inevitable reaction, and it followed as expected. Toolshed’s eyes widened, and he mumbled “Dude…”, as if stricken with something very puzzling right in his face; Cartman laugh-snorted.

 “Destroying your own property, Human Kite? You sure? That shit costs money, you seem to forget. You may be an alien kite, but you’re still a Jew alien kite, don’t even try to deny it.”

 Human Kite pointedly ignored him.

 Mysterion seemed hesitant.

 “I can help you to take it off, if you want. We can shove it behind these boxes, so it wouldn’t visible during the inspection.”

 What he proposed was…

 well, rational.

 A very sensible thing to do.

 However, impossible.

 Doing that was tantamount to recognizing himself as a mere child toying with the concepts of “helping” and “justice”. Some part of Kyle’s brain knew that he was just that, someone who plays the game of being a hero, someone who assumes the role of a person better than himself. However, it was just a part of him, not the whole, and the other parts were repulsed by the idea of detaching something _that belonged to their own body_. The part of him that _knew_ chid him for being unreasonable, and he snapped back at it. _The fuck,_ _do you even understand, what…? Do you even know that I… Do you want to be ripped fucking apart? To be reduced to… to…_

 He lost the train of his thoughts.

 “ _I will not do it_.”

 His word sounded as final as he could make them, each one with its own distinct emphasis.

 Mysterion blinked, and shifted in his box – an odd kind of a tentative motion; not an acquiescence, but neither an outright reject. Human Kite was about to press the matter, when...

 When Toolshed said, oh, he just _had to say that_ :

 “Um, so, maybe, it’d be better, if you waited for us here, dude? It would be such a shame to get your kite broken.”

 Human Kite turned to him and to Cartman and opened his mouth – to seethe, to explain, to revolt, to provide justifications, to maybe seethe some more or to yell; to externalize each one of the conflicting feelings that roiled him, and each one of the jumbled thoughts that swarmed him, and if not each one, than at least _one_ , _any_ – but oh, hey, what’s that? there was a shout from the outside. The signal from one of “Freedom Pals”; the driver was coming back.

 Mysterion cursed under his breath and darted to the tailgate; it still hadn’t been closed all the way after they finished handing bags of Cat Chow over to Tupperware and Mosquito in order to clear the space; it remaining ajar provided a dim strip of daylight, necessary for finding their bearings during the whole process of fitting themselves into the containers.

 Their time was dwindling. In half a minute, they would have to suspend all activity, lest they be heard and discovered.

 “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

 With the final clang of the tailgate being shut and with ensuing onset of darkness, Human Kite crouched down beside the box and placed the horizontal spar, jutting from behind of his right shoulder, on the edge of it. He wrung his body, his skin and muscles screaming under the belts digging into them, and stretched his left arm; he twisted it and turned, positioning it for what he was about to do – and then, sharply, pushed it down.

 His palm met with wood; he heard a sickening crunch.

 He _felt_ it.

 Immediately, the canvas, previously well-braced and taut, went limp, pliant, _lifeless_ . Burdened by the same piece of wood that supported it not long ago, now broken and dangling on threads. Asymmetry felt acute, jarring. The right side of Human Kite’s body cried for attention, almost painful; it was painful with real, tangible pain; still the pain came from a phantom limb, didn’t it? from something that couldn’t possibly hurt, could it? or, or, maybe, may it be that it was referred pain, from the tightened belts, or, or from the uncomfortable position, or… _it shouldn’t, so why, why the heck it hurt_.

 Human Kite suppressed shiver and, clumsily, tipped himself over the edge of the box, landing inside in a mess of awkward limbs and crumpled fabric. It the darkness, he groped for the lid and found it; he lifted it up and over himself.

 He heard his friends doing the same.

 In no more than a minute, after an initial flurry of activity, all sounds ceased to be; that is, all except for the chuffs, coming from the direction of Cartman’s hiding place, and Kyle’s own ragged breath. The pulse beat frantically and palpably against his skin, in the arm pressed into his chest. Everything was squeezed up against everything. It was uncomfortable. It still hurt.

 Well, he just had to grin and bear it.

 Or at least to bear, without the grinning part.

 Roaringly, the truck’s engine revved, sending tremors and vibrations through the vehicle and through the bodies of everyone inside it. It was like that for a while – sound and jitters, but no motion. Then, a (not so sudden, entirely expected) jolt.

 With it, at last, their mission truly began.

 The truck was moving off and to Mephesto’s facility.


End file.
